The Making of the President 2006
by ElyahGray
Summary: When an assassination and a scandal combine, Sam becomes the heir apparent for the Democratic nomination.
1. Denial of Information

The Making of the President, 2006

            It is difficult to know exactly when the 2006 campaign season started, but the events that set it in to motion began in 1991, when President Sullivan ordered the first strikes against the dictatorial nation of Qumar. 

            Qumar has been a thorn in the side of the United States since the middle of the Cold War, when US aid money, intended to feed Qumari widows, was diverted to finance the government sponsored poppy farmers, heroin sellers, and sometime-warlords of western Qumar. When the fraud was discovered, all US aid was promptly cut off, and Qumar proclaimed itself a Communist nation. Nothing changed for the Qumari people, however, and no ties were formed with Moscow. 

            When Qumar sensed the tide turning against the Soviet Union in the early 1980s it proclaimed itself a capitalist nation once more. Never did the Qumari regime change. The wealth of oil contained beneath Qumar prompted OPEC and the capitalist nations of the world to welcome Qumar back with open arms, however.

            The Qumari foreign minister complained to the United States military that the small nation felt defenseless from retribution from the Soviet Union. The United States, although still mistrustful of sending Qumar aid money, jumped at the chance to set up a military base in the unstable Middle East. 

            In July of 1990, a long awaited revolution began in the streets of Qumar. By September the Royal Family had been ousted, and by December a military dictatorship had been set up. In February the People's Fascist Army of Qumar decided that the United States could no longer be a presence in Qumar.

            So they attacked the US military base in the Sed Ranos Mountains.

            The United States' retribution was swift, but by no means conclusive. Although the American people's outrage was thorough, errors in intelligence gathering and lack of international support limited the offensive to minor air strikes. 

            President Sullivan, who, by the end of the Qumari air strike offensive, titled "Operation Mantled Eagle" (better known as Operation Mangled Eagle to pundits throughout the nation), was a lame duck president, having lost his reelection bid to President Jed Bartlet, ordered additional money funneled into the international intelligence arm of the CIA. Eventually, the true power of the CIA was made secret to everyone outside the military, including the new president, also on President Sullivan's orders. This new branch was to be given complete autonomy and to act in whatever they believed to be the best interest of the United States. Naturally, a great number of atrocities were committed, as, so the adage goes, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

            All this remains unproven, of course. No indictments have been handed out; no one has been forced to resign.

            But the truth was discovered, as it always is, and those involved were held to pay for their crimes.

            Which left a division of the CIA with orders to maintain plausible deniability and no mandate except secrecy.

            The pink rubber ball.

            Sam hated the pink rubber ball. Not because it was annoying; although it didn't take him long to become irritated with the thump-thump-slap when Toby was using it, but because of what it symbolized. The appearance of the pink rubber ball was always an ill omen for Sam. The only time it had been present for more than two days running was when President Bartlet announced his MS to his staff. It had been present for just under two days when Sam gave the tape to his former best friend, and he had almost tripped over it the day he had to speak to Leo's daughter's class.

            The pink rubber ball.

            Toby was slapping it against the window of Sam's office once again. Sam had been not working on the speech to welcome the Prime Minister of Australia for over an hour, trying to imagine what upcoming crisis could merit the presence of the pink rubber ball when he decided to give up and go next door.

            "What's up, Toby?"

            Toby didn't look up from the sheaf of papers in his lap. "Sixteen million dollars."

            "That's a pretty hefty fine for information, even from you."

            Toby was, as per usual, not in the mood for Sam to be cute. "There's sixteen million dollars budgeted for polio research in the year 2003."

            "What's the problem with that?"

            "I'm looking at the CIA budget."

            "Why does the CIA need to be doing polio research?"

            "Good question. Especially considering that we just cut millions dollars from the CIA's budget, and that they tell us they don't have enough money to go around for the things they're supposed to be doing."

            Sam thought for a moment. "Do you need those numbers for anything?"

            "No, I just got this file for the fun of it, to do research I don't need."

            "Right." Sam was, as per usual, not in the mood for Toby to be snarky. "Can I have them when you're done with them?"

            "Sure."

            Sam made a list. Polio research, $16 million. Publications regarding the hiring practices for PhDs, $177,000. Research on the effects of sarin gas on the California Banana Slug, $3.37 million. Sam felt somewhat like he was trapped in a MasterCard ad. The list went on for about a page, and totaled almost $175 million. All the numbers had in common was that they seemed to have little or nothing to do with the normal mission of the CIA. Sam wasn't sure why he felt the need to compile them, or what he was going to do with them once he had them. It just seemed interesting that in an era when the CIA was complaining about the amount of money cut from their budget, they should so blatantly waste so much money. It could be pork, Sam thought, some senator threatening to hold up the entire budget unless he could take a piece of the money back home, or it could be something more sinister.

            What, though? Categorical embezzlement? That couldn't be possible; too many people would be demanding accountability for the money for it to be kept secret from the White House, or at least the media. Accounting errors? Again, too many people would be demanding accountability for the usage of the money. 

            Perhaps the money wasn't being embezzled, but it was being used for something other than what it was being used for.

            "Ginger!" Sam didn't usually yell for his assistant, but it was a habit he had seen Josh and Leo adopt during their White House years and it slipped out before he could think.

            Ginger entered, a puzzled expression on her face. "Since when do you yell for me?"

            "Um, sorry about that. I need information on this list of things." Sam handed her the list of strange numbers.

            She examined it closely. "Some of these aren't going to be easy to find out about," she told him.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Margaret and Donna tried to get information about their findings on carpel tunnel syndrome and were told that the results were classified."

            "Did they use Josh's –"

            "They used Josh's name. And Leo's. And yours."

            "They used my name?"

            "Mmm hmmm. Still classified."

            "That's fraud!"

            "And yet somehow my aching wrists don't care."

            "See what you can get about the items on the list."

            "Okey dokey. Anything else?"

            "No, thanks, that's all."

            Sam jotted some notes for the welcome speech down on a piece of paper then stood up and walked out the door. He skirted by Toby's office, expecting his superior was grouchy. 

            "Hey, Sam." Josh rounded a corner and caught up to his friend.

            "Hey, Josh. You still doing the thing?"

            "No, I'm on to bickering with Donna."

            "It's a slow day today."

            "Yeah. Congress is in recess, the President's in Manchester, nothing interesting's happened in three days…"

            "These are all things I know. Listen, what kind of stuff can the CIA decline to give us information about?"

            "The CIA was denying you information?"

            "And you too. According to Ginger."

            "What?"

            "Apparently our assistants don't hesitate to use our names to get access to stuff."

            "Yeah, I know. Turns out I can get last minute tickets to the Dave Matthews Band."

            "Y'know, Margaret can forge the president's signature."

            "Yeah? Donna can forge John Adams' signature."

            "Really?"

            "Yeah, she bought the David McCullough book and a calligraphy set at the same time."

            "That could be useful information at some point."

            "I can't imagine any circumstances under which that information could be considered useful."

            "Do you ever notice how you bring Donna up in causal conversation all the time?"

            "I do not."

            "All the time, you do."

            "Really?"

            "Yeah."

            Josh looked perturbed by that information. "That's probably something I shouldn't be doing."

            "Yeah," said Sam, not quite smirking at his friend.

            "Hey, when are you going to meet with the president about healthcare?"

            "Not until he gets back from Manchester. We should give the man his vacation."

            "Okay. Let me know if he's going to let us go forward on prescription drug benefits."

            "He isn't."

            "I know. But tell him we need a floor fight. Things are getting boring around here, and we just can't have that."


	2. And Cooler Heads Be Damned

            When Sam returned to his desk a neatly typed page was waiting for him. It was a reprint of his list from earlier, this time with a third column – information available. He skimmed the list. "None available" was marked in the third column in every case except three: Sarin/banana slug testing, junior high school outreach, and the Office of Categorical Denial. Sam hoped the last was a joke. Ginger had written on an attached post-it note. 

"Sam –

            "This was all the information I could get. I called seven or eight offices and everyone shunted me somewhere else. When I finally got the office of the press secretary he told me that he had no comment except where otherwise noted."

            Sam frowned at the paper. He had meant to do some work, but the Ambassador speech could wait. He wandered out through the communications bullpen, looking for the one person he knew who was an expert on denial of information.

            "CJ," he called.

            "What can I do for you, Spanky?"

            "The CIA is denying me information on a group of programs."

            "Yeah?"

            "So when you don't know anything, or don't know what they want to ask, what do you tell a reporter?"

            "That I don't have any information for them."

            "And when you want to shut them down, stop their story, what do you say?"

            "'No comment,' but that's because it's always possible they can prove I knew."

            "Okay. Thanks."

            "Sure. 'How Do You Solve a Problem Like Scalia?'"

            "What?"

            "I went to see a comedy show yesterday, the Capital Steps, and one of the songs they sang was 'How Do You Solve a Problem Like Scalia?'"

            "From _The Sound of Music_?"

            "Well, yes, except in _The Sound of Music _it was about a whimsically unique nun, whereas here it's about an ornery and disliked Supreme Court Justice."

            "So they changed the words."

            "Here they had some rather unpleasant things to say about the honorable justice."

            "As do we all."

            "They had a song about you."

            "That's probably bad, right?"

            "'What Do You Do With a Lovelorn Speechwriter?' To the tune of 'What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?'"

            "That doesn't even fit syllabically."

            "Yeah." A long pause ensued. "Are you sure it's a good idea for you to be looking to closely at the CIA?" 

            "If I'm looking at things I shouldn't be looking at, I'm sure someone will get Leo or the President to stop me."

            She nodded and smiled at him. "Good luck."

            Sam thanked her and went to the Mess for lunch, thinking that "good luck" was an odd reaction for her to have. He was halfway through his turkey sandwich and Fresca (Ainsley finally convinced the Mess to carry it, and Sam wanted to see if it was as bad as he remembered – it was) when Ginger hurried over.

            "There's a guy from the Pentagon in your office," she told him.

            "From the Pentagon? I don't know anything about a meeting –"

            "It isn't scheduled. He sort of bullied his way in. He said he had very important information for you."

            Sam's eyebrows lifted almost all the way to his hairline. The reason Ginger had been assigned as his secretary was because it was common knowledge that he was willing to meet with almost anyone, so the crackpots lined up regardless of whether he had an opening in his schedule or not. Ginger was very hard to intimidate, and not likely to be bullied by anyone into letting anyone in her boss's office who was not supposed to be there.

            "He said he can only stay here for half an hour," Ginger hurried him.

            Sam grabbed his apple and sandwich, leaving the remainder of the Fresca, and put his tray on top of the trashcan. "Did he say what he needs to talk to me about?"

            Ginger shook her head. "Only that it was very important."

            "Okay. Thanks," Sam said as he began walking to his office.

            "Sure thing. I'm going to take lunch now?"

            "Go ahead."

            Sam's visitor was a crisp, clean-shaven, military man in his late thirties. Sam had a vague recollection that he had met the man somewhere before, but couldn't quite place him. Although his posture was immaculate and his face impassive, he stood with a vague anxiety; his shoulders held a tension that inexplicably made Sam nervous.

            "Good afternoon, Mr. Seaborn," the man addressed Sam as he entered.

            "Good afternoon," he replied.

            "You probably don't remember me; you and the President had dinner with my wife and I in Langley two years ago."

            "Of course I do, Mr. Douglass," Sam answered, remembering the mildly unpleasant dinner with the mildly pleasant CIA intelligence official.

            "That's gratifying, Mr. Seaborn, we still talk about the night we met with the President of the United States and his brilliant speechwriter."

            "Thank you, sir. Ginger, my assistant, told me that you have some important news?"

            "Yes. I told her I was from the military so she couldn't guess why I was here. The press secretary told me today that you were making inquiries about certain CIA programs."

            "Yes. There were some inaccuracies in the budget, so I wanted to learn where some of the money was going," Sam carefully hedged his statements.

            The officer smiled ruefully. "Some inaccuracies. Mr. Seaborn, the money in question is going to pay for a secret intelligence gathering association that has no accountability to any elected official."

            "I beg your pardon?"

            Douglass smiled without humor, having expected this reaction from the impeccably polite Sam. "This organization has been in place since the late Sullivan administration. They have funding that comes in through the CIA; only the director and a few accountants know about it."

            "What do they do?"

            "They track enemies to the United States and eliminate them if they become a threat."

            Oh God, thought Sam. "Eliminate them how," he asked, afraid he knew the answer.

            "There's a flood right now, in China." Sam's eyes widened.

            "Five hundred people have died in that flood!"

            "The head of an anti-capitalist organization the CIA believed was a threat to global stability lived in the area."

            "Lived in the area? Did they even get him?"

            "No, Mr. Seaborn, he's still living."

            Sam gaped like a fish. "Will you, please, will you wait for a few hours while I clear this with the Senior Staff and get CJ Craigg and a press conference together?"

            "I'm sorry, I can only stay another ten minutes. My life is in danger right now, just talking to you. If my name goes in the paper, if I'm on television, they'll kill me."

            Sam made an executive decision. It was against his democratic sensibilities to let the Senior Staff debate about whether it was in their best interests to release the information, and cooler heads be damned. "Wait right here, I'll get CJ and a reporter."

            Sam sprinted through the halls, dodging staffer and intern alike. He crashed into a young woman he didn't know, knocking her folders to the ground. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, hurriedly helping her pick them up. "I'll help you later!" he yelled, running off again. 

            "CJ!" He burst into her office without knocking, ignoring the deputy. "Get a reporter who's discreet, who you want to do a favor, a Woodward and Bernstein style favor, and meet me in my office. As quickly as you can."

            CJ didn't react before Sam was out the door again, running for his office.


	3. They Shot Bobby Kennedy

Okay, time for a spoiler alert: The Simon arc. Also, while I'm at it, I might as well do a disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own (most of) these characters, and, almost equally sadly, I'm not making any money off them. Neither is NBC, ha ha ha. Author's notes: This is my first major fanfic attempt, so please be kind to me. The only research I did was watching C-SPAN for a ridiculous length of time, so it's probably riddled with errors. The moral of this story is: Don't use fanfiction as a reference for your American Government paper, or you'll end up a very sad panda.

            "The media loves Sam right now. We shout put him up front; have him lead a press conference. Something.  Every time he opens his mouth in the Congressional hearings, they write a piece or twelve on how adorable he is."

            Sam wasn't really sure why CJ wanted him to take such a prominent position. But he couldn't disagree with her; through her advice the Bartlet administration could do no wrong. They had crammed through Congress key antigun legislation that never would have passed before. Their approval ratings were at 74%, the highest any president's had been since President Sullivan first announced in the Qumari air strikes. 

            "Where's convenient that we can put him?" Leo asked.

            "I'm on Capitol Beat tomorrow; I'm sure they wouldn't mind the switch." Josh suggested.

            "Who's on with you?" 

            "Sandra Hampton."

            CJ started, horrified. "We scheduled you opposite Sandra Hampton?" Josh and Sandra hated each other notoriously. The last time they had gotten together he had threatened to have the IRS audit her and her entire family. Fortunately they weren't on national television last time.

            "No, it was scheduled to be Paul DeVogle, but he cancelled."

            "Which is why you think they won't mind the switch. We'll get them on the phone this afternoon," Leo said with a tone of finality.

            Sam considered objecting to no one asking his consent for the appearance, but put it aside. "Sorry, I'm due back on the Hill shortly," he interrupted, standing up. It was his sixth day testifying before the Congressional inquiry into the abuse of power by the CIA's secret wing, a brutal, nerve-wracking process, particularly with a scandal this big. Frustrated congresspersons frequently go after the most convenient target – the person delivering the testimony. 

            Leo looked at his associate, noting the bags that had developed under his eyes the past few days. "Stop by my office after you're done." Sam nodded and left.

            Leo turned to the rest of his staff. "How's Sam holding up in the hearings, CJ?"

            "Beautifully. I don't think they can shake him, Leo. The only trouble spot was when the Majority Leader made those insinuations about when the White House knew, but Sam handled that exactly right, getting the reporter and me. They're nowhere close to wearing him down."

            "Good. Toby, how long can you afford to not have your deputy?"

            "Another week, anyway."

            "Good. Let's talk about the Vice-President."

            "He's looking good in the polls. Beating the closest Democratic challenger by ten or twelve points. He wants to do more photo ops with the President as soon as possible."

            "He can tag along to Cape Town next month."

            "He also wants to have his name attached to the investigation."

            "I'll bring it up with the President later today. Anything else?" The group made a general negative response. "All right." Leo stood and the rest of the Senior Staff headed out the door. Josh noticed an object fall out of CJ's pocket, and scooped it up.     

"Hey, CJ," Josh called.

            "Hey, Josh." Josh fell into step with CJ.

            "You dropped this."

            Josh handed it to CJ. "Thanks."

            "What is it?"

            "Clearly you aren't an auto mechanic. It's a spark plug, Josh."

            "Okay. Have fun in your briefing."

            "You betcha."

            Josh turned a corner while CJ went straight, heading for his office.

            From _The Washington Post_ that evening:

            "White House Insider Charms in Hearings

            "Sam Seaborn, the man who brought to light evidence in the allegations of misappropriation of funds against the CIA, testified before Congress about his discovery for the sixth consecutive day today. Although several conservative members questioned him about the role of the White House in the alleged misconduct, Mr. Seaborn remained calm and collected throughout his testimony.

            "I thought it was my duty to first inform the American people, and then to go to the President. This is not a matter that should be concealed; no one knows how many people have been murdered by this group, and no one yet knows how to stop future murders."

            Although no one has yet been indicted in this matter, White House spokesman CJ Craigg claims that arrests are near. "We're beginning to get intelligence reports that let us know exactly who is responsible for what acts. It's only a matter of time before indictments are handed down, and although it is always tragic to see overzealous patriotism be punished, we will certainly not spare these people for committing murder, even if it is in the name of the United States."

            Ms. Craigg also promised that the President would make an official comment within the next few days.

            Mr. Seaborn's charisma has not failed to bolster public confidence in the White House's ability to investigate the military. Before his testimony, only 47% of Americans thought the Executive Branch qualified to investigate its own operatives. 72% of Americans now approve of the job that the White House is doing, and a sizable 79% think that Mr. Seaborn is very credible. 

            "Hi, Sam," greeted Margaret. "You looked good on C-SPAN today."

            "Thanks," Sam smiled at her. "How's your day?"

            "Far from over. Did you know Millard Fillmore was our first illiterate president?"

            "No, was he?"

            "Yeah. He got offered an honorary diploma from Oxford, and he said he couldn't accept a diploma he was unable to read."

            "I didn't know that, Margaret. That'll probably come in handy someday."

            "Leo wants to see you."

            "Yeah, I'll head in now."

            Sam walked through Leo's office door with some trepidation. Leo looked up from his newspaper and smiled. "Sam, take a seat."

            He sat mutely. "I was talking to the Vice-President this morning, and he asked me to ask you a question."

            "The Vice-President wants to ask me a question?" Sam had always been under the impression that Hoynes thought he was a know-nothing pretty boy, an impression that Hoynes had done little to dissuade.

            "He wants to know if, after he gets the Democratic nomination, you'd be willing to run as his vice-president."

            Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was floored. He had thought, after the Bartlet administration, he might try for a position in the California state legislature. The Executive Branch hadn't even crossed his mind, except thirty years down the road.

            "I'd be honored, Leo, but won't I be more of a liability than an asset?"

            Leo smiled. "Not right now, Sam. I don't know if you've been reading about yourself in the papers, but they're making you into the next Bobby Kennedy."

            "Oh." Sam stood, still shellshocked, and headed for the door. 

            "Good night."

            "Leo?"

            "Yeah?"

            "They shot Bobby Kennedy."

            Leo didn't know how to react to the plaintive note in Sam's voice. "The Vice-President will want you to appear with him next week."

            "Okay."


	4. Virtue or Necessity?

            There is no air conditioning in the Dardanelles Concert Hall in Lafayette, Virginia.

            So when Sam, the Vice-President, and his entourage arrived, it became very clear that any speeches made in the Virginia summertime heat would have to be very short. Huge chunks were cut out of the program – the winner of the National Youth Poetry Contest, the American Chorale, all the dressy little details that usually make campaign stops so unbearable. The only people slated to speak were now the Vice-President, Sam, and the man introducing them, the popular junior senator from Virginia. 

            Sam hated it with a passion. He had never particularly enjoyed the campaign stops when Bartlet was running – whenever Bartlet spoke at one Sam always got the vaguely disorienting impression that he wasn't being himself. The fact that he was in Lafayette, Virginia, pushed into a position he wasn't even sure he wanted, without his friends around, made him miserable. 

            He thought about the people of the West Wing while he stared at his notes, mentally walking through the office and greeting the people there. He thought of Toby with a smile; to Sam's relief Toby was the only person in the West Wing who hadn't reacted to his campaign. "Well until then, I still haven't seen a draft of the ambassador speech with sentences of an appropriate length!" Toby had barked when Sam told him he would be campaigning with the Vice-President. 

            The thought of Josh brought affection and a pang of guilt. Since Josh was shot they had grown apart, no longer best friends and partners-in-crime. Sam felt terrible that he hadn't been the one to notice Josh's growing distress, but since he had started seeing Stanley he and Sam became good friends once again. Sam also had a warm, though somewhat distant, relationship with Donna. He didn't know her that well, but laughter for all the Senior Staffers came a little easier when she was in the room. 

            Ainsley. Sam didn't know exactly what his relationship with her was. She made him insane, laughed at him, and he at her. They teased each other relentlessly, never having much respect. He put the thought of her away, for consideration at a later date.

             CJ. Sam had a deep love of CJ inspired by respect. She was beautiful and intelligent, and, in Sam's mind, superior to him in every way, but not in a threatening way. He was thrilled that so excellent a creature would allow him to spend time with her; not only to spend time, but that she was willing to be a friend and confidant as well as an associate brought Sam a great deal of joy.

            Leo was an inspiration to Sam, but Sam didn't relate to him on a particularly personal level. Leo was to Sam as father is to son: Well loved and flawed, but always an authority figure. President Bartlet was the same way, except Sam was always very surprised when he received an indication that Bartlet has clay feet. 

            "For a guy that's devoted his life to politics, you sure don't like politicking very much," Hoynes remarked from across the room. 

            Sam started. He hadn't seen Hoynes enter the room; he thought he was the prep room. "No, sir," Sam answered. "I like to pretend we always act in the best interests of the nation, and campaigning pretty much makes that impossible.

"I prefer to think there's a difference between political virtue and political necessity."

"That's a nice turn of phrase, sir," Sam lied.

"Why did you agree to be here, Sam?"

"You asked me to come. You asked me to help you run." The simplicity of the answer belied the complexity of the emotions that had made him want to help the Vice-President.

"But," Hoynes hesitated. "You don't like me. And I don't particularly like you. I don't mean that like…I don't dislike you. I can't imagine why you'd want to come and help out a man who's never done you any favors."

"The President says you're a good man, and that your politics are good. And my loyalty is, above all, to the politics I believe in. If the President says you will advance the politics I believe in, than I will follow you at any risk of personal sacrifice."

Hoynes took a step toward Sam, arm extended, as if he wanted to embrace the younger man, then hesitated. "That's very respectable. I wouldn't believe it coming from anyone but you." He dropped his hand and turned, then walked out the door.

Sam reviewed his notes, preparing for the speech. Eventually one of Hoynes' interns knocked on the door and entered. "They're ready for you on stage, sir."

"Thank you." Sam stood, gathered his papers, and walked to the door. A few turns down a corridor, and he was in a green room just outside the stage. 

"…my pleasure to introduce two of the Democratic Party's finest, Vice-President John Hoynes and White House Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn!" the Senator from Virginia finished.

Hoynes turned on the mic clipped to his lapel as he walked to the platform. Sam remembered thinking that it was odd when Hoynes had demanded a lapel mic instead of a podium with microphones in it. Sam followed, as planned, a step behind and a half step to the left of the Vice-President. He stood near him as he reached the podium. "Thank you, Senator, and good evening Virginia!" The crowd cheered predictably. "I am here with my good friend Sam Seaborn to initiate a number of new programs – programs designed to make sure that no government agency can commit the atrocities of the CIA." Another cheer. Sam wondered who had written Hoynes' speech; it wasn't very good. "That is why, today, we have come to –"

Hoynes was cut off by a loud bang.

The most disturbing thing, Sam mused, about being shot at in a crowd, isn't the screams. The screams were, obviously, a terrible part, but the part that Sam found the most upsetting was the long silence before anyone understands what's going on.

This went through Sam's head as he dove for the Vice-President, trying to shield him from future gunshots. Another bang resounded, and Sam felt a fire burning in his upper arm. "Where are the secret service?" he thought.

After a moment another commotion sounded from the back, with more gunshots, and Sam guessed it was the secret service rounding up the shooters. For some reason Sam was neither afraid nor hysterical.

"Sir, don't painic," Sam told Hoynes as he rolled off the Vice-President. "There's an ambulance and more police officers on the way. Are you hurt?" Sam was startled to hear his voice booming over the PA system, then remembered Hoynes' clipped-on mic.

"Sam?" Hoynes looked at Sam with an almost unrecognizing panic. Sam looked down Hoynes' body and was disturbed to find a growing spot of blood on his shirt. 

"Sir, you shouldn't talk," Sam tried to comfort him. "There's an ambulance on the way, you're going to be just fine."

The gurgling sound as Hoynes inhaled let Sam know he had a punctured lung. "Sam, you're a good man. I want you to be the next president."

"No, sir, you're going to be fine. I'll be your vice-president."

"Don't lie to me, Sam, I've been shot. You're the future; you can save the country. I want you to run. Promise me."

"Yes sir, I promise."

"Good," groaned Hoynes as his last gurgle of breath escaped. A dozen secret service officers and a few paramedics ran up to the podium and surrounded them, but they were too late. The vice-president was dead, killed by assassins. 


	5. Florography

            "Toby," Sam mumbled. "Stop with the ball, already. We figured out about the CIA."

            "Good morning, Mr. Seaborn," a nurse said, waking Sam out of the last vestige of his dream. The monotonous sound he had mistaken for Toby's ball was actually only the beep of a heart monitor. 

            "Ugh…hi." Sam's arm burned with the pain of his injury. Looking down, he saw it was swathed in a thick bandage. He looked around the room, surprised at the amount of equipment he was surrounded by; he didn't recognize most of it. 

            "Do you remember what happened, sir?"

            "They shot at the president, at the Newseum…is CJ okay? I tried to pull her down…"

            "Sir?"

            Sam remembered. "No, ah, I'm sorry. They shot at Vice-President Hoynes and I. Is he okay?"

            "I'm sorry, sir, I can't answer your questions." The orderly was pretty, with short blonde hair and perfect teeth. Sam thought she looked like Ainsley.

            "Why is there so much stuff here? I'm not that hurt, am I?"

            "No, sir. We just didn't want to take any chances with your health. The President, he –"

            "He what?"

            "He's here to see you," Bartlet said as he entered the room.

            "Good morning, Mr. President."

            "How're you feeling, Sam?" The President smiled, but his eyes radiated concern for his employee.

            "Felt better, sir. They're being mighty cheap with the painkillers."

            "My wife's orders. She commented that you had an unusual threshold for pain, so they didn't have to give you as much."

            "Remind me to thank her," Sam grimaced. He was feeling a little snarky, and a little loopy from the painkillers. "How's the Vice-President, sir?"

            "He's dead, Sam."

            "I know. I'm sorry, Mr. President. I tried –"

            "It was an act of heroism, Sam."

            Sam would have bowed his head, had he not been lying in a hospital bed. He just lowered his eyes.

            "Leo and I want to put your name forward as the nominee for the vice-presidency."

            Sam's eyes snapped open. "Sir, you can't think I'm the most qualified candidate?"

            "There are people with more experience," the President conceded. "And there are people who are more suave. But you, Sam, combine intelligence and a love of justice that makes you the most qualified person for this job."

            "Sir, I'm flattered, but I have to decline."

            "Why?"

            "Because I've just been shot? Is that a good enough excuse?" Sam was angry; his entire life had been derailed by a few sentences from Leo. "Because it's wrong to make political hay from the brutal murder of the Vice-President?"

            "Sam –"

            "Or how about because I'm not ready? I can't be the vice-president; I, I still think Gameboy is damn fine entertainment. I trip over my own feet, sir, I almost burned down the White House trying to start a fire!"

            "Do you think anyone is ready to be president?"

            Sam halted mid-rant. "What?"

            "Men are not made for the office, Sam, men are made by the office. I was just a governor; I didn't know anything. Leo took me aside one day and said 'Jed, stop fooling around. You're going to be president.' That's all it takes, Sam; belief in the power of the office. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't know you would be a great vice-president, and a great president two years from now."

            "Sir, I don't want – "

            "We have to present our nomination to Congress tomorrow. Will you accept?"

            "I serve the people, Mr. President," Sam mumbled. He felt nauseated. 

            "Good. I hope you feel better; I'm due with the Joint Chiefs –"

            "Thank you for coming to see me, sir."

            "Of course, Sam. I think Josh is next in line."

            "Next?"

            "The entire West Wing has shown up to wish you well. I only got in first because I happen to be able to fire the rest of them."

            "Oh." He hadn't expected that they would all come to see him, but when he thought about it he realized it only made sense. Although, secretly, it did make him feel warm that they would care enough.

            The President left and Sam faded into drug-hazy semi-consciousness for a minute or two, until Josh came in. 

            "Hey, Sam."

            "Hey, Josh."

            "I recognize that dazed look. They've got you on the good stuff."

            Sam smiled. "Not enough of it, thanks to the First Lady."

            "Yeah, she cut me off pretty quick, too."

            "Thanks for coming, Josh."

            "Of course." Josh sat down in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to Sam's bed. They sat in companionable silence for a moment or two, until Josh broke it. "You're the best friend I ever had, Sam."

            "Thanks, Josh."

            "I'm sorry we drifted apart, after…you know."

            "I understand."

            "Don't let it…eat at you. It'll kill you if you let it. If you need someone to talk to, I can give you Stanley's number, or I'm…"

            "Thanks."

            Sam sat up and observed the room around him. It was not the kind of hospital room he was used to. It was clearly a pediatric room, made for six or more patients. The room was full of flowers and cards; there were probably more gifts than people Sam had ever met.

            "What hospital am I in, Josh? And what's all this stuff?"

            "This is George Washington. And the stuff is the only good part about getting shot. People – random people you'll never meet – decide that you're a good guy just because you got shot near the seat of democracy, so they send you stuff. And if the Secret Service decides those things are safe, you'll never need to buy brownies again, as long as you live."

            "Wow. Why am I in a pediatric room?"

            "The Secret Service says you can't be in a room near other people. So this is the only isolated one they had that isn't quarantined. The flowers from people you know are over here." Josh gestured at a table with four relatively feeble looking bouquets of flowers.

            "Who sent roses?"

            "Ainsley. I got you the blue things."

            "Did you actually go to a florist and ask for blue things?"

            "If you mean did I technically leave the West Wing and go to an actual florist, no. But I did tell Donna she could have an extra fifteen minutes of lunch if she'd go and get them for you. And I did tell her blue things."

            "Ooo, magnanimous. Tell Donna I said they're beautiful."

            "The yellow ones are from CJ –"

            "They're daisies. CJ's praising me for my loyalty and gentleness."

            "Are – do you and CJ talk in flowers frequently?"

            "We both happen to be fluent florographs."

            "And the last bouquet is from Leo."

            "Margaret has good taste. Is Leo here?"

            "Not yet. He's going to stop by later. Speaking of which, I have to testify in half an hour."

            Sam grimaced for his friend. "Sorry."

            "Not your fault. Do you want me to send in the next visitor?"

            "Yes please."    


	6. Brownies For a Thousand Years

            "So then, he, he says – 'The breakfast or the farm!'" CJ and Ainsley dissolved into laughter, and Sam chuckled along with them. He was not as amused, but he didn't know the intern in question.

            "And I'm sure he said it just like that," Ainsley laughed. Her hair shook back when she laughed, and Sam smiled to see her.

            "So when do you get out of here, Sam?" CJ asked.

            "In just a few hours. They're just waiting for my MRI before they release me."

            "What are you going to do after you get out?"

            "Toby says he has everything under control at the office (which I have a hard time believing), so I'm going to schedule a meeting with Bruno."

            CJ grimaced as she thought of the meeting. "Do you want me to sit in? Just to try and distract his surliness."

            "No, thanks. It should be okay."

            "Yes, I look forward to nothing so much as another Democrat president," Ainsley groused.

            "It could be worse," Sam suggested.

            "How?"

            "It could be Lillienfield."

            Ainsley shuddered. She hated Lillienfield much more than she hated any of the self-righteous Democrats that could be found in the West Wing; he had been chief among those from her own side who had underestimated her, discouraged her, and finally mocked her for following her love of her country into the service of a liberal.

            "You're right, it could be worse."

            "He's making motions like he wants the Republican nomination," CJ told them.

            "You're joking," Ainsley said. "He only has about a 22% approval rating in his own district."

            "You guys don't really have anyone better," Sam put in. "Reynolds, McShane? No chance. Reynolds might work for the vice presidency, but he doesn't have enough name recognition to be valuable as a presidential candidate. McShane is liked by moderates, but he doesn't follow the will of the whip enough to be considered by the conservative wing of the party; at least, not enough to get the nomination."

            "What about Raymond Burns? He's right in the middle of the Party, and everyone I know likes him."

            Sam shook his head. "He's been divorced three times." 

            "Really?" 

            "Yeah."

            Ainsley looked dejected, and Sam marveled at how quickly he slipped into political operative mode. And at how much he enjoyed being a political operative. 

            "Speaking of presidential candidates with unusual marital situations, what are you going to do, Sam?"

            "I don't have the slightest idea yet. I'm sure Bruno will suggest something that I'll hate, then there'll be yelling, and possibly things breaking."

            A knock at the door drew their attention, and the First Lady stepped into the room. "Hello CJ, Ainsley."

            "Ma'am."

            "Good evening, ma'am."

            "Sam, how are you feeling?"

            "Honestly, like someone cut me off the good painkillers a little too soon."

            Dr. Bartlet examined Sam's chart. "So it looks like you'll be able to get out of here pretty soon."

            "I can only hope."

            She turned to CJ and Ainsley. "May I have the room, please?"

            "Sure."

            "Of course, ma'am."

            The First Lady sat on Sam's bed, and for an instant he felt a flash of surrealism that had plagued him since arriving in the White House. "The first lady is sitting on the end of my bed, and has just issued orders to my doctor about how much medicine I'm allowed," he thought.

            "You have a meeting with Bruno later today," she said without preamble. It wasn't a question.

            "Yes ma'am."

            "He's going to tell you things about your lifestyle that you aren't going to like."

            "Yes ma'am."

            "I don't agree with a great many of the things that man says; that aside, I'd like to offer you some advice."

            "By all means, please do."

            "And I'd like you to not interrupt."

            "Sure."

            "If he tells you, and he probably will, that you need to marry someone, first consider whether it's worth it to you to continue your career if it means making that kind of commitment to someone you may not even be in love with. But if you do decide to make that commitment, make sure it's someone you like, someone you get along with, and, above all, someone you respect. The only conflict I have with Jed comes about because he doesn't respect me, and the promises he's made to me, or I don't respect him."

            "Ma'am, I –"

            "Remember what I said about interrupting, Sam. You may have something in mind already, I'd just like to encourage you to think carefully before you make any decisions, and don't hesitate to seek the council of any of your friends."

            "Thank you, ma'am."

            She smiled at him, and he was suddenly in awe of this woman who had given up everything for her husband and yet had not been diminished herself. "You'll do well, Sam, if you just listen to your conscience."

            "Thank you," he said, a little more honestly.

            "You're very welcome, Sam."

            It felt good to be back in the West Wing, even walking to a meeting he wasn't going to enjoy. The noise was reassuring, if nothing else – the quiet in the hospital room had bothered Sam to no end. He shifted his fingers in his sling. "For a man who just had an attempt made on his life, I don't feel too bad," he thought. 

            "Hey, Sam!"

            "Good to see you back!" greeted Ed and Larry.

            "Thanks, guys. Care for a brownie?" Sam proffered the plate he carried in his right hand, his good hand.

            "Thanks," they chorused as they each took a chocolate square. "Where'd you get them?" Ed (or maybe Larry) queried.

            "Sandra J. from St. Paul sent them to me. The Secret Service tested them for every poison known to man."

            "That's reassuring," Larry (Ed?) joked. 

            "Not as much as you might think. What if the Reticulans are trying to poison our leaders?" Ed inqured.

            Donna walked past, thankfully saving Sam from having to inquire about the Reticulans. "Hi Ed. Hi Larry," she greeted them, to Sam's shock, with confidence that she had their names correct. "Hi, Sam. How's it going?"

            "Could be worse. Want a brownie?"

            "You just may be my new favorite person," she smiled, snatching a brownie. "What are you doing back here? Leo said you had today and tomorrow for…whatever it is that people do when they aren't here."

            "I'm meeting with Bruno."

            "And you wanted to do it here in case the Secret Service have to pull you off him?"

            "Something like that."

            "Good luck."

            "People keep saying that; why does everyone think I'll need it so much?"

            "It isn't you; everyone needs luck when Bruno's around."

            "Yeah, that makes sense."

            "Let me know how it went when you're done. And if you have any leftover brownies when you're done, I wouldn't be opposed."

            "Don't be too confident about the leftover brownies – I've yet to see Ainsley."

            Donna laughed. "Have you seen CJ?"

            "I think she's in her office."

            "Thanks." Donna headed off toward CJ's office, as Sam turned to the Mural Room. Slowly, warily, he opened the door and stepped inside.

            "Sam," greeted Bruno. "Good to see you. How's the arm?"


	7. A Wedding or a Funeral?

Author's Note: Some of you may have noticed (and a few, scorchingly, commented on, ouch) that this story has taken a bit of a nosedive since chapter one. I apologize; I was so eager to start the story (and get to the lovely feedback!) that I didn't plan it out as well as I should have. It should, in my humble opinion, get better, starting with this chapter. Also I apologize for the syntax in this story. Normally I can write coherent sentences, but here, not so much. Hee hee hee, I hope you all enjoy my little surprise this chapter!

Six Days Later

Air Force One

            "Donnnnaaaa!" Josh howled from the back of the plane. Sam smiled at her as she walked (taking her time, he noted) from her seat six or seven rows in front of him to the back, where Josh sat impatiently.

            He turned back to his speech impatiently. He was midway through draft forty-seven, and, as far as he could tell, it was impossible for the speech to get any worse. Sam fell back on an old trick: Listening in his head to what it would sound like when President Bartlet read it aloud.

            "…today we stand at a point of unparalleled prosperity," read Sam's mental Bartlet, "and we must continue the trends that have led us here. We must preserve our economy, and everything we can to promote the fiscal conservatism –" Sam quickly erased conservatism and replaced it with caution – the liberal wing of the party found conservatism to be a dirty word.

            Sam closed the laptop in disgust, and resumed staring out the window. He was justified in being preoccupied – he had decided to propose to Ainsley that day, on the plane. 

            He had gone into his meeting with Bruno intending to tell him to go to hell; to tell him that he would marry who he wanted when he wanted to. But Bruno, like the president, had shut him down, and with the same argument. That if he wanted to advance his politics, he was going to have to play politics the way the American people had become accustomed to.

            So he bit the bullet and promised Bruno he'd propose to Ainsley. It wasn't that he wasn't looking forward to it, it was just that– he wasn't looking forward to it. He and Ainsley had gotten into a heated argument the day before, and not the joyful banter they usually shared. Both sides had said some things he hoped they didn't mean. He felt particularly guilty about calling her self-important and a mercenary, and felt terrible that she thought he was a conniver who crafted an image of innocence to fool the unwary. 

            A flash of light coming from outside his window interrupted his reverie. The thick clouds that Sam had noticed gathering for the past hour had finally led them into a thunderstorm. Sam, unlike most people, was not afraid of lightening when in an airplane. He thought it was more beautiful when viewed from the side, and he loved the feeling of being part of the energy of the sky. He decided to take a break for watching, and plugged his headphones into the armrest. Violin music instantly flared. Sam couldn't put a name to the composer or the piece, but he knew it was one of the President's favorites.

            An odd thought entered his brain. "Why am I writing this like it's Bartlet's speech?" he asked himself. "This is my speech. And if Bruno and Leo and the President are going to put me in line to take this job, than I am not going to do it as if I was President Bartlet. I'll do it on my own line and on my own politics. And if they don't like it they can find a new candidate. This speech is for me, so I will write it for me."

            Sam reopened his laptop and deleted everything he had written. "Although we stand at a point of unparalleled prosperity for the wealthy, it is not so for the poor. And that is a trend we must reverse, even at a cost to our economy. Fiscal conservatism is for the best if you're a member of the upper classes; but in an era of prosperity we should not allow those at the bottom to be left behind. After adjustment for inflation, many people in menial-type jobs are making less than they did in the 1950s, while compensation for corporate CEOs grows ever higher."

            When he closed the laptop again, he did it with confidence and satisfaction and the knowledge that it was the best speech he had written. He would have smiled in satisfaction, but there were still too many things weighing on his mind.

            First was the Congress – they were to either confirm or deny him as vice president within the next week. It was near certain that he would be confirmed, but it was all in the margin. A narrow confirmation would mean that he didn't have the mandate of the legislative body, which, theoretically, would be a comment on his lack of support with the general populace.

            Second was his marriage. Of course that was of concern. He wasn't sure why it didn't rank first on his table of worries, but, for some reason, it didn't. Sam hoped that his would end better than Leo's, or Toby's, but with his current level of dedication to his future wedded bliss he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn't. Sam glanced at his watch and noted that it was only forty-five more minutes until the plane landed. 

            He stood up and took up the small velvet box he had bought the week before from his overcoat pocket, worrying it with his thumb for a moment before he put it in his suit pocket. "So…here I go," he said to himself. He started down the aisle to the dining room, where Ainsley made a habit of sitting whenever she was invited onto Air Force One. He hardly got more than six steps before his knees threatened to collapse.

            "I can't do this. I thought…but I just can't. I need help." Sam hardly knew where he was going before he arrived at the conference room where CJ and Toby had sequestered themselves at the beginning of the trip. He knocked twice, curtly, on the door before opening it.

            "Can I have the room, please?" Sam asked Toby politely.

            Toby started to refuse, but the look in his deputy's eyes stopped him. "Yeah…CJ, I still need to talk to you about the –"

            CJ was more interested in the desperation in Sam's face. "I'll come find you," she told him distractedly. Toby walked out, looking as grouchy as usual.

            "What's up, Sam?"

            Sam hesitated for a moment. "Why did you…why did you stop calling me Spanky?"

            "Well, gee, Sam, if I'd known you liked it so much I would have asked Justice Scalia to have it legally changed for you. Spanky for President? It has a certain ring. 

            Sam looked at her intently for a moment, hoping to wear her down.

            "Sam, you…accepted. They asked you to make the greatest sacrifice you can make – they asked you to give up your life for the presidency and you said yes, knowing full well what it entailed."

            "Would you have done it?"

            "I like to think so. But I don't know. What do you need, Sam?"

            "I have to go propose to Ainsley."

            "Oh…kay."

            "And it isn't like I don't want to. I just don't want to, in every possible sense of not wanting to."

            "Why not?"

            "The First Lady told me that the most important thing here is to choose – excuse me, ask – someone I greatly respect."

            "You respect Ainsley like Josh respects the Majority Leader. Or Justice Scalia."

            "Yeah."

            "So what do you do?"

            "I was going to…" Sam's voice failed him and he had to start again. "I was going to…CJ, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?"


	8. Inarticulate

Author's notes: So this one's a little depressing, but I've been listening to my copy "Hallelujah" nonstop. Therefore you really can't blame me. 

            CJ opened her mouth, intending to refuse, but a strange feeling came over her. It wasn't quite patriotism and it wasn't quite affection, but it was heady and powerful and swept away her objections.

            "I got these rings," Sam babbled, as if a dam had broken in his mouth. "I got two, because I always hated how proprietary it seemed that the woman had to wear a ring and the man didn't. So I got two. Actually, Ainsley wouldn't have appreciated that at all. There's a sapphire and an opal, little ones…"

            "I'll never get to be a press secretary again," she thought, ignoring Sam while she argued with herself. "I'll live in a glass dome, and conversations will always stop when I come in the room."

            "You already live in a glass dome," answered her odd emotion. "And what will you do after Bartlet, anyway? Where do you go after being the press secretary to the President of the United States? A consulting job? And this isn't about you, CJ; it's about doing what's right. If it was supposed to be about you you could have been an actress."

            "Simon," she answered herself finally. "How is this not disloyal to him?"

            "You don't owe him your life, Claudia."

            Sam had stopped talking and was staring at CJ, and she realized she was staring back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I forgot about…I'll, I'm going to go now." He started for the door.

            "Sam," CJ called as Sam turned. He looked vaguely hopeful as he turned back to face her.

            "I can't be Abbey Bartlet for you," she said.

            He smiled ruefully at her. "That's fine, because I'm no Jed Bartlet."

            She reached into her pocket. "I still have…" she took out the spark plug and handed it to Sam. He stared at it for a moment, until understanding came to him in a wave. He looked up at her, fully understanding the depth of her misery after Simon's death.

            "CJ, I never knew that you –"

            "I never told any one how much he mattered to me. I want, though -- " CJ cut herself off before she could admit to having been almost in love with Sam in the past and wanting to fall in love with him. "Okay. Sam, I will be honored to accept your ring."

            Sam handed it over wordlessly, and CJ put it on her left ring finger, while Sam put a duplicate on his own. CJ reached up and put a hand on Sam's cheek. They both felt a surge of affection tempered with respect, and he smiled beatifically at her, telling her with his eyes that his request wasn't simply one of convenience. Her Mona Lisa smile told him she already knew.

            Sam walked out of the conference room to find his Secret Service agent, Jennie Duarte, waiting by the door. After the Vice-President was shot the President insisted Sam accept a security detail, even if it was only a single agent. Sam didn't mind much; he had no baby blue classic car to drive home and no niece to take shopping for junior prom dresses. Sam's relationship with Jennie was strictly business; she had made it clear that she had no interest in his life beyond that which she needed to know to protect him, and insisted on calling him "sir" or "Mr. Seaborn". She wasn't nasty or overly cold to him, but she obviously was just doing her job.

            "Mr. Seaborn?" She fell into step behind him as he walked along the corridor.

            "Yes?" Sam asked, finding trying to have a conversation with a woman walking behind him very awkward.

            "Mr. Gionelli asked to see you after you were done with Ms. Craigg."

            "Thank you." 

            Sam turned down the hallway and saw Bruno loitering outside a conference room. "It's done, there's no need to remind me," Sam told Bruno curtly.

            "Well, mazeltov, Sam. I assume she said yes?"

            "Yes, but – it's not the she you think it is."

            "What?"

            "I proposed to CJ."

            "No, that can't be."

            "Why not?"

            "You're still standing on both legs, no visible bruises."

            "You do realize that this is the woman I just proposed to?"

            "So I should shut up?"

            "Yeah."

            "Will do."

            Over the last few days, Sam had been assembling a staff. Some of the brightest unproven political minds in the world flocked to him – he was offering recent college graduates senior positions on a major presidential campaign, an offer unseen since John Kennedy. Sam offered to let every senior staffer keep their jobs, as well as everyone else he knew first- or second-hand to be competent. Leo, however, declined to stay. He cited his paternal relationship with Sam; if Sam saw him as an authority figure, Sam would feel pressured to comply with his advice, rather than trust his own judgment. Sam disagreed to the point of begging him to stay, but Leo insisted his decision was correct. Josh agreed accept the Chief of Staff position. 

            To fill CJ's position, as CJ, Sam, and Bruno regretfully agreed that it would seem improper for the First Lady to conduct press breifings, Hoynes' press secretary agreed to serve. A gracefully aging though physically imposing, James Marshall's parents had immigrated from southern Africa while his mother was pregnant. Josh, who knew him from his time working for Hoynes, recommended him heartily. To fill the vacancy left by Josh's promotion, Michelle LaGue was invited from France.

            LaGue was a political genius. Her charming yet wounding essays had reversed the tide of growing French conservatism and brought back true liberal politics to continental Europe. She translated them herself into flawless English. The only trouble (and the reason she was available to work for Sam) was that she was reported to be terribly erratic while working on a campaign. While working to get Jean-Claude Gautier reelected she had vanished for just under a week, and the campaign had stalled. She returned, and they won, but during her absence they lost a point and a half in the polls, a tremendous drop in the French primary.

            Sam and Josh had trouble working with her the first few days. She was utterly silent in Senior Staff, unless asked a direct question. On the fourth day of planning, Josh demanded her summary of what she thought their campaign strategy should be.

            "I, ah, I have not, the…" she stumbled over her own words for a few minutes, until Josh, disgusted, dismissed the senior staffers. He conceded the brilliance of her initial papers, but wondered if it had been a fluke, and took his concerns to Sam.

            Sam weighed the issue, Solomon like, until coming up with a solution. "You might be right," he told Josh, "or she might just be like me."

            "What do you mean?"

            "I'm going to ask her about the strategy myself. If she can't answer me, we'll start looking into alternative staffers."

            "Okay. Just, let me know before…"

            "Yeah."

            Sam opened his email program and sent Michelle a message asking for a campaign strategy. Less than an hour later, he got an intelligent, articulate, and even brilliant reply. 

            Josh was shocked to see it. "How did you get her to write this?"

            "She's not to be underestimated, Josh. She's a powerful intellect. Possibly the greatest political mind currently living. Just inarticulate."


	9. SNL and a Press Conference

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay on this one. Winterstock (a grueling five shows) opened and closed recently. And you've never known stress until you've been the lighting director for a repertory theater with only 14 circuits, a lightboard from the days of William of Orange, and the fire marshal pissed off because of some serious hazard or other. Good lord, there's enough asbestos in the walls to put anything out! Leave me alone. Oh, sorry. On with the fic.

            Sam and CJ stretched out in Sam's hotel room, watching Saturday Night Live, eating bad Thai food and drinking warm beer. They were in Dallas with the President, the latest in a long series of constituent visits that felt an awful lot like campaign stops. Sam lay on his stomach on the made bed, and CJ sat in an uncomfortable fireside chair, her long legs hooked over an armrest. Their work was long since completed, but CJ remained to finish their dinner and to see how those she hadn't fed information to were portraying the president on television. 

            "This pad thai is just to awful to eat any more of. Can I trade with you?" Sam asked.

            "Sure. I ate all the shrimp, though." CJ handed him her container of fried rice with a casual smile. One of the figures on the screen announced the musical guest, and CJ shut of the television.

            "Who was it?"

            "Eminem."

            She grabbed her beer off the floor near her feet and took a drink.

            "Tell me something, Sam." 

            "What?"

            "I don't know. Something no one else in Washington knows about you." She saw confusion in his expression, and explained her demand. "A girl I knew used require the boys she dated to tell her something about themselves that no one else knew, so she would always have a part of them in a secret. I thought it was a pretty tradition."

            "Okay." He took a drink of his own, holding the bottle by its neck, to stall for time. "Every speech that the President's ever not made, every paragraph we've cut because it was too naïve or to liberal or too idealistic, all of them. I still have them. On pieces of paper or discs or just in my head, I saved every one."

            CJ blinked a few times, considering what he told her. "It hurts you, doesn't it?" she asked finally, unhooking her legs and turning in the chair to face him. "It hurts you every time we can't say what we want to say."

            "Sure," he shrugged elaborately. "It gets to all of us, doesn't it?"

            "Yeah, but we've all done this before. Leo is usually the driving force behind our moderateism, Toby and Josh both worked for candidates who they hated, and I spent years pimping movies everyone in North America hated."

            "I signed up for it, didn't I?" Sam muttered uncomfortably.

            "Josh dragged you into it."

            "I'm happier here than I was at Gage Whitney."

            CJ nodded. "You have a chance to make this what it's supposed to be."

            "I hope so." He cleared his throat. "You have to tell me something, now."

            "Ummm…" CJ thought for a moment. "Okay. I play the cello."

            "Really?"

            She smiled with one side of her mouth. "Did you know that the President and the First Lady are the Drs. Bartlet?"

            "Yeah, because they both hold doctorate degrees. When did you take up the cello?"

            "When I was seven. It's not really a thing."

            "How good are you?" Sam was intrigued by the idea of CJ playing the cello. In his mind, the instrument suited her well: it, like she, was tall, graceful, and eloquent. 

            "Not bad."

            "CJ…"

            "I'm not bad. I won some prizes. In high school I won second place in the Vienna Youth in Music festival."

            Sam looked at CJ contemplatively, then smiled at her. "Thank you."

            CJ was startled into smiling back at him. Then she yawned widely, and stood up. Sam, ever polite, stood too. "I'm going to get some sleep. It's been a long week." Sam nodded. "Good night," she said, and patted his shoulder gently. 

            "'Night, CJ." She turned to the door. "CJ?"

            "Yeah?" She turned back to face him, and his eyes were brimming with tears. "I didn't propose to you because it was a political necessity."

            "Sam, you don't have to –" 

            "No, I mean…" he took her hand delicately, turning her palm to face him, and placing his own over hers. "Palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss," popped into CJ's mind, but the comparison of she and Sam to Romeo and Juliet would have been silly. "I just didn't want you to think that this is about expediting my political career." Sam's index finger traced delicate patterns over the back of CJ's hand. "CJ, I love you," he remarked, his voice full of surprise, joy, wonder, and something else.

            "Oh," CJ half sighed the word, won over by the adoration in Sam's eyes. "Sam…"  He leaned forward, and she did the same in inexorable reply. Their lips met gently, and draped her hand over Sam's shoulder.

            "According to your schedules, Air Force One will land at exactly 2:20, which means it should get in at about 5:00. The President then has a brief meeting with Karen Weaver, after which he plans to retire to the East Wing. Questions?"

            "CJ!"

            "CJ!"

            "Yes, Mark, then Annika?"

            "CJ, Mariana Rojas announced today that she will resign as Sergeant-at-Arms in the Congress. Does the White House have a comment?"

            "The President is sorry to see Ms. Rojas go after her long service, but he's confident that she will find success in her next endeavors. He has sent her a note to that effect."

            "A follow up? Does the White House have an idea of who might replace Ms. Rojas?"

            "You'll have to talk to the Senate Parliamentarian about that. Next?"

            "Secretary of State Greenberg said at a press conference today that, quote, 'The conservative party in this nation is too interested in how the people of foreign nations run their lives to be able to understand and solve the needs of the American people.' Did the President have a reaction to this?"

            "Well, the President obviously believes the latter to be true, otherwise he would be a Republican. However, the President does support and continues to support American assistance in unstable regions of the globe. Seamus?"

            "CJ, there's a report that's going to be published in one of the next few days in one of the less reputable scandal sheets that you and Sam Seaborn are having a romance. I thought you'd like an opportunity to publicly deny it before it hits the newsstands."

            "Actually, Seamus, that brings me to the announcement that I was going to make next week. Sam Seaborn and I are engaged. We'll do a joint briefing on that tomorrow, but for now: We've yet to set a date for the wedding, but it will probably be soon and in the Rose Garden, when Sam announces his campaign team I will not be serving as press secretary. We have yet to discuss children or the type of ceremony that will be held, and the President and First Lady give their blessing. I won't be taking questions on the subject until tomorrow. And stop smirking at me, Angelo, I don't care what you predicted a month ago. Dave, then Mark again, then Lydia."

            "CJ, congratulations."

            "Thanks, Dave. Your question?"

            "The UN is reporting increased military activity in…"


	10. The Inaugural Evidence

            "I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same: that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter."

            It was a cold, but uncharacteristically clear February afternoon when Sam took the Oath of the Vice President. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court didn't look overly happy to be swearing Sam in, especially when he had to remove his gloves to proffer the Bible he swore upon, and many of the Senior Staff took a sadistic glee in rousing the old conservative from his comfortable bench. "You know, each Justice on the Supreme Court has their chair personally fitted so they won't have to fidget," Margaret had told him while fixing his tie. 

            He visited many of the White House staffers before going to the Capitol, savoring the energy that permeated the building. He knew that it would be his last opportunity, for good or bad, to stand in the West Wing as a player, rather than a private citizen or (come the next election) the driving force behind the energy. He had just stood in the bullpen for long moments, surrounded by televisions and junior staffers, when he saw Donna appear.

            "Hey, Donna."

            "Sam! I didn't think you'd be coming in today."

            "I just wanted to come in for a few minutes, say goodbye to everybody."

            "Don't talk like you're going somewhere. We'll all still come by to harass you."

            "Will you, please? I'd like that, if you'd all come to visit."

            "Of course we will. It's only across town. Have you seen the mansion yet?"

            "No. Well, I've driven past it, it's on the end of Embassy Row."

            "It's an old navy observatory. It's supposed to be very drafty, but the Navy will pay for your heating bills. Oh, hey, I got you something. Well, not so much got you something as stole it for you." Donna took a rubber ball from her purse and put it in Sam's hand. "I thought you might want to throw it out of a window somewhere," she smiled.

            "Thanks, Donna. If I get an opportunity to dine with royalty, you'll certainly be on the invitation list."

            "Hey, thanks. Good luck, Sam."

            "Is Josh free?"

            "Sure. He's looking for the file on 12-386, but he's not going to find it. It's on top of his file cabinet, but I'm not going to tell him."

            "Why not?"

            "He wished me a happy birthday."

            "What's wrong with –"

            "It's not _my _birthday!"

            "Oh." Sam rapped on the door to Josh's office and stepped inside when Josh mumbled something. "Are you busy?" he asked Josh.

            "No, I'm just looking for –" Sam grabbed the folder (admiring Donna's organizational skills, for being able to tell him exactly where he would find the folder) and tossed it onto Josh's blotter. 

            "What did you do to Donna?"

            "Nothing! I just said 'happy birthday' and she got really angry!"

            "Well, yeah, I got that, being that Donna's birthday is in May."

            Josh frowned. "No it isn't. It's today."

            "No. Remember, last year, Bonnie made a cake? And Margaret commented on how Donna's birthday is the same as Karl Marx's? It's May 5th."

            "Yeah…but why would I write it down wrong?" Josh proffered his desk calendar, which, sure enough had "b-day, DM" scrawled by the date. To Sam's amusement, "Inaug, SS" was written in the corner in much smaller print.

            Something occurred to Sam. "You know whose birthday it is today?" Sam smirked evilly. 

            "No, whose?" Josh inquired with a little trepidation.

            "Amy Gardener's."

            Josh stared at Sam for a moment, then looked down at his day planner with more than a little embarrassment. The other item on the planner caught his eye. "Sam, today's your inauguration!"

            "Believe it or not, I actually did know that. It's, y'know, all that we've been working on for three weeks."

            "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, having hair cream put on or something?"

            "I'm not due for another forty minutes. So I thought I'd come visit one more time. Before. You know. And thanks to your little error, it's certainly worth the time I'm taking."

            Josh's eyes widened in alarm. "Sam, you wouldn't…"

            "Nah. But I had you going there for a second. You really ought to work out these issues with Donna, you know…"

            Josh mumbled something under his breath. "What was that?"

            "Nothing. I said, 'you and my mom'."

            "Okay. I'm here collecting advice."

            "Sam, it's like graduation day." Josh smirked at his friend, but Sam could see the edge of truth underneath his statement. The one good thing that came out of the shooting, to Sam's mind, was his newfound closeness with Josh. Their common experience made them much closer than they were even before Josh started shutting Sam out. "Okay. Always carry a towel."

            "Josh, I'm looking for something I couldn't get from reading Douglas Adams."

            Josh thought for a few long moments before answering his friend. "The thing, I think, that sets Lincoln and Roosevelt away from all of our other presidents is not their writing, or their charisma, although they were certainly not lacking in either of those departments. The thing that made them great was their willingness to sacrifice themselves for – not even their political ideology, but for what they felt in some place deeper than even politics resonates was right. And I know you have that potential in you, Sam. The danger is, though, that the American people are a fickle bunch and it's almost impossible to predict what they'll react well too. And if you're willing to take that risk and you don't do well, you'll be a Woodrow Wilson or an Adlai Stevenson: the right ideas – beautiful ideas – but no presentation and no support."

            Sam digested Josh's startlingly impassioned speech, and Josh could tell that Sam was slightly taken aback. "I'd, uh, been thinking about that for a little while."

            "I could tell."

            Donna rapped on the door. "You're going to be late to lunch with DuBarry."

            "I gotta go. Go talk to Leo. He'll have better advice than I do."

            Sam walked out of the communications bullpen to the Chief of Staff's office. Margaret ushered him into the office, where Leo looked up from his file folder. 

            "Hello, Sam. You aren't due anywhere right now?"

            "No, I've got an hour or so before I need to start getting ready."

            "You have a speech?"

            "Yes. I'm not entirely happy with it, but Gordon and Aimee are looking at it, and we'll have time to go over it again."

            Leo nodded. "The law enforcement community is going to look to you to lead the investigation. The legal and the Congressional investigation."

            "It's kind of funny. I can't even bring myself to watch crime drama, but here it is." Sam laughed humorlessly.

            "I called some people I used to work with, and I got you a list of names." Leo tossed a piece of paper onto his desk in front of Sam. 

            "What are..?"

            "These are people who might be able to help you find out who is responsible for what. And I want you to know that I trust your judgment completely when it comes to whether or not to use these names. But it'll be bad, I don't know how bad, for me, and for some friends of mine. The President, however, isn't in any danger over this."

            "Th-thank you, sir."

            "Come here, Sam." Leo embraced the younger man tightly. "I'm proud of you."

            "Thank you, Leo. I wouldn't be able to without everything you've taught me."

            "Come on. The President told me he wants to see you as soon as you get a minute."


	11. Sleepytime Tea

Author's Note: Okay, they kicked me out of the Peace Corps and I'm really sad, but basically now I have nothing to do but look for a job and write Sam fanfic. So sorry for the delay, but on with the story!

            Leo opened the door to the Oval Office for Sam, then followed Sam as he stepped inside. President Bartlet sat behind the Resolute desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose. 

            "Good morning, Mr. President," Leo announced their entrance. Sam noted the White House photographer standing unobtrusively near the door to the Outer Office. 

            "Good morning, Leo, Sam. How did you sleep last night, Sam?"

            "Sir?"

            "How did you sleep, I asked."

            "Fine, sir." Bartlet stared unerringly at Sam, his half smirk telling Sam that he knew what it was like the night before one is inaugurated. "There may have been some throwing up," Sam admitted finally.

            "Glad to hear it. I would have been worried about you if there wasn't. Hey, Leo, tell Sam what you did the night before my first inauguration."

            Leo rolled his eyes. "Until he's inaugurated, he still works for me. And I have no intention of telling anyone who works for me that story. Matter of fact, I'm pretty sorry I told the guy I work for that story."

            "Spoilsport. You want to keep your office here, Sam?" Bartlet asked, changing topics with his trademark lightening speed.

            "Won't the new Deputy need it?"

            Bartlet brushed off Sam's concern with a wave of his hand. "They can work out of the OEOB. It's traditional for the Vice President to have a West Wing office, but Hoynes thought he wouldn't be around here enough to use it."

            "That'd be great, Mr. President." Sam said, smiling gratefully. "I'm here collecting advice, sir. Do you have any tips I could use?"

            Bartlet removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "Always think about what you're saying when you say it," he said finally. "So you avoid 'This magnificent vista' problems."

            Sam was a little disappointed that the President hadn't given him any real advice, but he quickly swallowed it. "Thank you, sir. 

            "You and Claudia Jean stop by the Residence sometime this week. Abbey and I want to have dinner with our new-minted Vice President."

            "Yes sir."

            Sam turned towards the outer office, but the President's voice stopped him. "Sam."

            Sam turned back. "Mr. President?"

            "Don't hesitate to let your staff do things for you. You don't need to be inside on every single decision, nor do you need to revise every set of remarks the staff submits for you. Let them take charge of things."

            "Thank you, Mr. President."

            "The one thing you learn over time is discretion. What fights you should pick, and when you should let things go. Where you should step in, and when you should let your staff take over." Bartlet nodded, and Sam could tell the speech was over. 

            "Thanks, sir." Sam's voice was soft, and very sincere. Fleetingly Bartlet hoped that sending Sam to the Vice Presidency was the right thing to do, but the hours of debate in days and weeks past strengthened his resolve and he dismissed it. Sam exited into the outer office. He nodded hello to Deborah Fiderer, and continued toward the office of the Press Secretary.

            "Hey, CJ," Sam greeted her, walking through the open door. She waved a greeting to him, absorbed in her phone conversation. Sam made a smiling note of the ring on her finger as she waved.

            Sam crossed the office and flopped down on CJ's couch. "So," she smirked at him, hanging up the phone.

            "So," he answered, as she stood up and motioned her to follow him. 

            "You're being inaugurated today."

            "You're going to be there. Matter of fact, I'm pretty sure you're going to be standing next to me on the dais.

"Wouldn't miss it." They walked into the halls of the West Wing, walking quickly through the corridors to the Mess.

            "And yet?"

            "I'm just saying, we're both here."

            "We work here. Why wouldn't we be here?"

            "You're getting inaugurated today, and I'm going to be there."

            "And that precludes our presence here how?"

            "It doesn't. I'm just saying, we're workaholics."

            "Because we're here the same morning I'm being inaugurated," Sam said, understanding. "Come to think of it, why are we here?" he wondered, looking around at the Mess.

            "Because I'm going to buy you some Sleepytime Tea."

            "You're what now?"

            "I'm buying you tea," she said, leading him to the purchase line.

            "Why?"

            "I know what you did last night."

            Sam rolled his eyes. "Would that that were innuendo," he joked. CJ's eyes met his for a brief moment.

            "Would that it were," she muttered. "My point is, have you eaten anything today?"

            "No."

            "And did you keep down anything you ate yesterday?"

            "Yes!" Sam cried, glad of a small victory.

            "And was it tea?"

            "Yes."

            "Okay then. I'm going to buy you some tea, which you are going to drink without complaint. Do I make myself clear?"

            Sam's expression didn't reflect happiness, but he stood in line with CJ without complaint. She draped one long arm around his shoulders, and he comfortably encircled her waist with his own. They were so comfortable in each other's company that neither noticed one of the nearly omnipresent White House photographers taking pictures.

            After a comfortable silence, they reached the front of the line and CJ ordered Sam's tea. He groused, and she agreed to let him drink chamomile instead of Sleepytime, but only after some cajoling.

            The retired to a table, Sam warming his fingers with the paper cup of tea and CJ eating apple sticks and peanut butter. Each bought their own favorite publication – CJ selecting the Washington Post, and Sam the New York Times. They carefully avoided stories about the impending inauguration or wedding, but read each other amusing vignettes. They debated the merits fo a President facing an opposition Congress, and, with elections not far away, how glad they were not to be led by a Prime Minister. They told small stories and reveled in each other's company.

            But their calm was broken when both pagers went off at nearly the same time. It was time for Sam to prepare for his inauguration.


	12. A Waltz

            Sam was inaugurated with a solemn handshake from the Chief Justice and a warm embrace from the President. Liberals hailed the speech that followed as a "triumph of leftist ideas in a sensible though idealistic style," according to _Hardball _("My God," shouted Toby at his television, "did you think the speech had a nougat center?"). Sam held up admirably through the photographs, the crowds, the throngs of Republicans, and the solemn Secret Service tail.

            But what he wasn't prepared for were the balls.

            Sam had seen inaugural balls before; he had been at President Sullivan's, as his law firm had represented the former president, and he had attended both of President Bartlet's; and this one was only for a vice president, and it was hampered because the nation was still in mourning over John Hoynes. What those previous experiences hadn't prepared him for, however, was the amount of sheer attention that he would receive. The notion that someone would be looking at him every instant of the day was a foreign one to him, and he had some trouble handling it. Fortunately, CJ was always at his elbow, ready to cajole, joke, or insult him into staying calm. Her very presence was a comfort to him, keeping him grounded at a time when control was crucial; after all, the nation was getting their first look at their new Vice President.

            Sam attended the ball at the Washington Convention Center (California) first, then to another at the National Guard Armory (New Hampshire), and then a third at the Four Seasons Washington (Virginia). They spent a few minutes at the other fifteen, held in ballrooms the names of which Sam never quite caught. By eleven the adrenaline of the day was fading. Sam and his entourage headed back with the President and his entourage to the West Wing for a staff-only private party that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. 

            "Claudia Jean," Sam asked, entering, after his fourth glass of champagne in three hours, the realm of tipsy. "Would you care to dance with me?"

            "How many times have we danced today?"

            "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not nice to answer a question with a question?"

            "No. Didn't anyone ever tell you?" CJ was working on her sixth glass, but was still not outwardly affected. One who knew her well, though, might have noted her slightly more aggressive posture, or her quicker smile. 

            "Fine. We've danced twenty-three times today: Four at the first ball, three at the second, twice at the third, then once at the fifteen others."

            "That's a total of twenty-four."

            "Really? Well, twenty-four times, then. Come on, CJ, 'once more into the breach, dear friend.'"

            "Don't you quote at me, you unprincipled usurper, without a virtue, supplying ignorance by bold presumption!"

            "Quoting Lincoln? I didn't think he was your style." Sam extended a hand to her (the one not occupied by a champagne glass), and she heaved herself out of the comfortable divan where she rested. 

            "Hmph. I should know better than to try and out-literate an Ivy Leaguer. Shut up and dance, Samuel."

            Sam did. "So, when do we get to tour the mansion?" CJ asked, after a minute of waltz.

            "I suppose tomorrow morning. Right now I just want someone to point me towards the bedroom." CJ arched an eyebrow at her dance partner, but it took him a moment to realize the innuendo that she could interpret from his statement. "I meant, of course I didn't mean I wanted someone to point _us _toward the bedroom, I meant –"

            "You don't want to sleep with me, Samuel?" CJ pouted laughingly, but Sam was inebriated enough that he didn't recognize the humor in her voice.

            "Well of course I do, CJ, but I would never – wait, I didn't mean that -- "

            "Swim, Sam!" she laughed. "The waters are getting deep! "

            "CJ…" CJ noted the look of blind panic in Sam's eyes and decided that her teasing was getting cruel. And she ended it the fastest, simplest way she could think of. 

            She leaned over, placed her hand on the back of Sam's head, and, before her good sense could stop her, kissed him hard.

            Shocked, he didn't react for a moment. But as she stepped in, he drew his hands around from waltz position, drawing them tighter around her waist to bring her closer. She parted her lips a little, and he returned the kiss hungrily. They kissed deeply, and CJ almost thought she could feel her toes curl as he demonstrated that he did, in fact, want to sleep with her. They stood together in the middle of the dance floor for some time, not noticing as other dancers backed away. The orchestra continued to play, but hit some false notes as the musicians and conductor turned their attention to the couple that had ended the dancing.

            At last they drew their heads apart and noticed that they were the focus of all eyes. CJ felt awkward for a moment, before deciding that the best way to salvage the moment would be to make a joke.

            "So, Sam and I are pretty drunk right now," she said loudly. The staff, all the way down to the interns, stared at her. She smiled, and some of them had the grace to chuckle uncomfortably.

            "We'd probably better go to sleep before we do something unbecoming of the Vice President and Press Secretary. Like throwing up on the First Lady's shoes or something."

            Sam found his voice. "Yeah. So we'd like to bid you all a good night," he said. "And if anybody knows a good hangover cure, we'd probably appreciate it over at the Vice Presidential mansion tomorrow."

            A chorus of "Goodnight, sir"s and "Goodnight, Mr. Vice President"s erupted. An armed marine guard escorted Sam and CJ to a waiting motorcade.

            Which, in Sam's opinion, didn't travel nearly fast enough. The procession to the mansion was very slow, but after a long and mostly silent ride, a very polite butler whose name Sam didn't catch directed them to the master bedroom, pointing out another suite available for CJ's use. He did not indicate that he thought she should use it, though, and Sam and CJ both appreciated his discretion.

            Not that they thought about it long.

            They shed clothes on the way to the well-appointed, king size bed. And neither of them slept very much.


	13. Interlude

            Sam found himself in a pitch-dark cavern. He knew with that strange certainty of dreams that there was nothing to be found behind him, and that forward was the only option. So he moved forward, and in that slip-slide of sleepers found himself standing on a balcony.

            The balcony overlooked a broad expanse of grassy plain. Sam noted that the grass was two colored, with a patch of dark green surrounded on all four sides with a patch of light green. What interested Sam, however, were the inhabitants of the plain. There were thousands of them, all advancing slowly across the grassy squares. Each, as they marched, made a strange gesture that involved a lift of the elbows and a wave of the hands. The gesture produced a glowing black liquid that they deposited into buckets slung over their backs with an expression of delighted wonder. After a few repetitions, a tall man – or was it a castle? – slid by and collected the substance they were producing. He fed it into a machine, which in turn produced the light that enabled Sam to see the plain upon which they stood.

            But as they worked on, their smiles grew harder, and eventually faded. Some grew ill, and Sam knew (though he could not have said how) that the illness was caused by the black liquid. Still the castle-man encouraged them to work. A man on a horse rode up, and began whipping the laborers with a long, cruel whip. They cried out, but still he whipped them. Some collapsed and did not rise again.

            Sam blinked, horrified by the cruelty. When he looked back, he saw that there were only eight laborers, standing in a row like pawns; that the horseman with the whip was a Knight, and that the encouraging castle-man was a Rook. The Black King and Queen encouraged them with shouted orders. He looked down the two-colored field, noting now that it was a chess service, to find the White, and see if they treated their pawns as cruelly as the Black. What he saw was a single Pawn, but rather than the familiar slit-faced figurine, he saw a beautiful young woman, dressed in robes of shimmering white. As he watched she made the gesture that produced the black liquid, but subtlely altered, so that her very hands glowed with the light of pure energy, becoming brighter and brighter, until they finally eclipsed the machine that produced the light.

            The Black was so outraged by this that the Black King ordered the Queen out. She moved illegally past her own laboring pawns, darted across squares she should not have been able to cross, and took the beautiful White Pawn. There arose an outcry from the White, which Sam saw dimly, and from above; Sam guessed the voices from beyond the chess service to be the Arbiters. However, a Black Knight Sam hadn't noticed lashed forward, injuring the White Knight (which, Sam noted with horror, had Josh's face) and taking the White Queen, who was not the White Queen at all, but Hoynes.

            Sam let out a strangled cry, but before he could protest the other White Knight, the one with CJ's face, and a Bishop that looked like Leo captured the Black Knight, on King Bartlet's orders. Suddenly, shockingly, Sam found himself no longer a spectator, but another White Pawn in the seventh row. King Bartlet ordered him to advance, and he did. Out of nowhere the Chief Justice appeared and proclaimed him the White Vice President, to be called Queen for the sake of convenience. Sam knew that even as Queen he was threatened on all sides, by King, Knight, Bishop and Rook, but he trusted in the White King to use him appropriately.

            However, before Sam could move again, a cry was taken up. "Shah mat!" someone screamed. And before Sam could turn, the cry was taken up by every piece on the board. "Shah mat!"

            And by that same dreamer's reflex, Sam knew what the call meant.

            Checkmate.


	14. The Pawn is Valuable Because

            Sam was awakened the next morning by another frighteningly polite butler rapping on the door promptly at six. He introduced himself as Alexi and explained that he was not a butler but one of the stewards employed by the Navy to attend to the needs of the Vice President. He poured Sam a cup of coffee (inexplicably knowing exactly the amount of cream and sugar that Sam preferred without inquiring it of Sam), offered aspirin (which Sam declined) and departed, leaving Sam to think.

            CJ was not in the bed with him, but he had not really expected her to be. She had confessed, one late night during the campaign, to being incredibly unsentimental about sex. "My main goal in the morning," she'd admitted, "is to brush my teeth so I don't drive my partner away." Sam's suspicions of where she was were confirmed when the water in the next room hissed to life. He smiled when he heard what she was humming: "Sit Down, John" from_ 1776. _

            Her absence gave him some time to think about his strange dream from the previous night. "Shah-mat?" he wondered aloud. His dreams weren't normally so vivid; this one, though strange, was as clearly remembered as the previous day. Furthermore, he was not a chess player. Although his strategies were normally good, and he could map out a plan to defeat for his opponent 22 moves down the line, he would forget moves 8 through 12 and consequently lose. 

            He wondered about the beautiful pawn. All the other figures in the dream were easily recognizable, but he didn't recall ever having seen the pawn. She seemed very significant to him; as if when he understood what she represented, he'd understand what his subconscious was trying to tell him with the strangely vivid dream. 

            Sam sipped his coffee and reclined in the luxurious king bed. After a few moments, the door to the bathroom opened and CJ stepped out, dressed in a suit without a jacket and a towel around her hair.

            "Where've ya been, Claudia Jean?" he asked, pronouncing "been" like "bean".

            She smirked at him, blew a wayward lock of drying hair out of her eyes with a disgusted puff of air, and told him "Slant rhyme doesn't count. You should see that shower, though! With the kind of water pressure they've got in there, you could open a mill in the bath tub if you wanted."

            She looked down for a moment. "I feel like things should be awkward between us, now," she said lightly, though Sam would've had to be a fool to miss the vulnerability in her face. "Sex is power, and a kind that," she cleared her throat uncomfortably, "I don't really understand well enough to predict how it will behave. Are things going to be awkward?"

            Sam shook his head. "Please, CJ, please understand that I'll never use any kind of power I have against you," he murmured.

            She looked up, and Sam was struck by the fierceness of the emotion in her face. "I know. I'm sorry, I know. It's just, the unpredictable element makes me a little jumpy, is all," she said, keeping her tone light by force of will.

            Sam knew the dismissal of a topic when he heard one. He changed the subject to the first new one he could think of. "CJ, do you know what 'j'adoube' means?"

            "Hmm, yes," she answered, attending to her hair in a mirror over the dresser. Most of their belongings had arrived the previous day, arranged by some faceless member of the staff. "It's a chess term. If your piece isn't lined up on a square you say 'j'adoube' when you adjust it, so you won't have to move that piece if you don't want to. It's French. Why do you ask?"

            "No reason. I just woke up thinking of it. I dreamed about chess last night, actually."

            "Really?" Sam poured her a cup of coffee from the elegant porcelain service the steward had left.

            "Not a very good dream, actually. People I know were the pieces, and the President was the king."

            "Which team were you on?"

            "White. With all of you. You were a White Knight. But part of the time I was a bystander."

            "At least you were on the same team as your friends."

            "That's true. The White Queen sacrificed himself."

            "Himself?" CJ turned fully to face Sam, intrigued by the conversation.

            "Yeah. Strangely enough, Hoynes was the White Queen."

            "I suppose it makes sense. The Queen is second in importance only to the King."

            "And in my dream, he sacrificed himself so I could make it to the eighth square."

            "And become the new White Queen, just like you became the new Vice President? This sounds like a dream of uncommon lucidity. But the White Queen didn't sacrifice himself, he was assassinated."

            Sam shrugged. "I just wonder who one of the White Pawns was. She was the only one in the dream I didn't know."

            CJ laughed. "Alice, maybe."

            "Alice?"

            "From _Alice in Wonderland_. She was a pawn, always running to stay in place."

            Sam thought for a moment, then something about the chronology of the dream struck him. "Do you remember…" he trailed off.

            "What?"

            "Do you remember, in the weeks before Rosslyn, what stories the press was seizing on?"

            She frowned, trying to remember. "Umm…no, not really. There were some hate crimes in Florida, and that was the so-called "Summer of Kidnappings," but I don't really remember much beyond that."

            "Ooh, that Summer of Whatever business is absurd."

            "I could get Carol to check if you like."

            "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks, CJ."

            "Sure." She glanced at the clock. "Mmm! I've got to go. Senior staff's in half an hour."

            Sam nodded, and kissed CJ on the cheek. "I suppose I'll see what duties exist for 'his superfluous excellency.'"

            "Oh, what the hell did Franklin know?" Laughed CJ as she walked into the corridor, leaving Sam to dress and find something to do.

            Somewhat to Sam's surprise, however, there was much to be attended to by the Vice President and the skeletal Senior Staff that Sam had retained. Upon dressing and being conducted by another steward to the Vice President's office, Sam was greeted by Hoynes' Senior Assistant, a wizened old man with steel gray hair and a take no prisoners attitude. He presented Sam with his schedule for the day, which mapped out every minute of his time from seven thirty to a little after five. "Vice President Hoynes didn't care to work too far into the evening," he explained. "He stayed very carefully on schedule to make sure," the little man added, his tone of voice clearly telling Sam "You'd be wise to do the same."

            "I have no objections to working late, if it ensures that everything that needs to be done is done," Sam replied blandly.

            The schedule was not what Sam had expected. Nor was it exactly what he had hoped for. It consisted mainly of a tediously long roster of Washington's secondaries: those who sought the attention of the President and needed to be placated, and those who needed some good photo opportunities. Many of them were either representatives of big campaign donors, or big special interest groups. Sam was not particularly impressed by the urgency of meeting with any of them, but he held his tongue while the first of them were ushered into his spacious and comfortably appointed office.

            The assistant conducted a trio of lawyerly-looking gentlemen in suits into the office. Sam rose to greet them, listened to their grievances (they were unhappy with current federal subsidization of art supplies in the computer gaming industry), labeled them crackpots – or, worse, irrelevant – and tuned out the rest of the meeting, nodding whenever they paused. He promised to speak to the President on their behalf, and ushered back out of the office. The next two meetings were just as bad.

            The fourth meeting was a little more interesting, though. Sam could tell from the moment they walked in that the lobbyists weren't; that is to say, they were not policymakers or lawyers who had become highly paid professional lobbyists. 

            There were two men and a woman, all professionally attired. After the polite greetings the younger of the two men began imploring Sam to consider increasing pressure on local law enforcement to track down missing children. He went through a rundown of missing children, statistics, their histories, and other pertinent information before the older man began a more personal appeal.

            "Mr. Vice President, two years ago my daughter was abducted from our very home. The police, however, didn't believe us when we asked them to find her; at first they implied that we were to blame, then they said that she had run away from home! My wife and I love her so dearly…and I know, above all things, she was happy at our home. She loved her school, her friends. Her science teachers all told us she's brilliant. Her chemistry teacher was even trying to get her a full scholarship to UC Berkeley."

            The man held out an 8 by 10 photograph to Sam. "Mr. Vice President, this is my daughter. She'd be a sophomore in high school right now, and I know you have a lot on your plate, sir, but please, help us find her. And help the police make sure that this doesn't happen to any other families."

            Sam, however, was staring at the photograph in his outstretched hand. It was, without a doubt, the pawn from his dream.


End file.
